


Performance Review

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Boot Worship, Extreme Deadline Treat, F/M, Hate Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-24 03:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15621366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: Steph visits Vegas near the end of Dean’s rehab from surgery.





	Performance Review

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lanternhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanternhill/gifts).



He rapped out a little rhythm on the door to the suite - rapid-fire and really annoying - and then slouched against the wall to wait for his welcome. Steph’s scowl when she threw open the door and tugged him across the threshold by a handful of his t-shirt did not disappoint.

“Hiya, boss. Didja miss me?”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a shove further in the room. “Did anyone see you come up here?”

“Well, I mean, who can say?” He shrugged his shoulders high and offered up his most innocent grin. “This is a pretty famous and beloved mug I’ve got. You never know who might recognize it. And then, of course, there’s the sandwich-board I wore on my walk over: ‘Coming To Get Steph McMahon Off Right’. People on the Strip really liked the flyers. Ran out before I hit the lobby.” 

He knew the slap was coming - hadn’t been about to stop talking shit until she broke it out - but he let the crack of her palm turn his head and sucked in a sharp breath as his cheek started to heat and tingle. He grinned wider and rubbed at his cheek as he looked her over, from the high, thin heels of her knee-high boots over her clingy blue dress and up to the red flush rising across her chest and into her own cheeks.

“You’re really not here to talk, Dean.”

They didn’t kiss, as a rule, but he did step into her space and dip his face to her shoulder to suck a mark onto the skin alongside the thin strap of her dress. She arched into him, and the image of her explaining the bruise he was making to Hunter later went straight to his cock. One of her hands fisted into his shirt, the other in the back of his hair. 

“I should make you bathe first,” she said, with a sharp tug on his hair. “They’re going to charge me when they have to incinerate the bedding.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, walking her backward toward the bed, feeling the shape of her through her dress, yanking down the zipper at her back, waiting to see if she’d smack his hands away. “These sheets are never gonna dry out.”

She dropped onto the edge of the bed with a disgusted groan, the top of her dress falling away a little to show the black lace of her bra. “And after the bath, I guess I should muzzle you. Seems to be the only way to keep you quiet.”

He took a knee in front of her and pushed her thighs open wider. “Probably,” he allowed, “and, hey, it’s your trust fund, Princess, but that seems like kind of a waste, after you flew all the way out here just for this mouth.”

“Keep flattering yourself, Lunatic.” She scowled, and planted one pointy-toed boot against his chest, nudging him backward with a weak kick. “I’m only here to follow up on the surgeon’s report and see if you’re still worth WWE’s investment.”

“Ah. Gotcha. All business.” He tugged his shirt off over his head and threw it aside, shifting to display his right arm. “So you want a demonstration?” he asked, deliberately curving and flexing his fingers in a steady, careful stroke while she watched. “Make sure I can still earn my keep, one way or another?”

She huffed out a breath that could almost have been a laugh, coming from someone who liked him a little more. “I can’t believe it’s been so long that I almost forgot how astonishingly obnoxious you are.” She dug her heel into his skin just a little, and scraped a line down his belly and over his belt, until she was grinding her toe into the hard-on starting to ache behind his zipper. “Show me why I shouldn’t just have you dumped off at the pound.”

He snapped his teeth at her - not just a street-dog, but rabid to boot - and reached down to unfasten his belt. She rolled her eyes again and pressed the toe of her boot harder into the bulge in his jeans before she dropped it to the carpet to let him undo his fly and shimmy them far enough down his hips to free his cock. 

He was already pretty much fully hard even before he got a hand around himself and pulled off a couple of long, theatrical strokes, showcasing for her his surgically-improved range of motion. It probably wouldn’t take much to get him there - it had been a while, and he’d been thinking about basically nothing but this ever since she’d texted her room number -, but that was okay; he was pretty sure she’d be most of the way there by the time he got his mouth on her, and whatever she had to say about his early finish would just have him ready for a second round that much faster. 

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” she asked, sneering, even as her eyes tracked his hand and she slipped her arms free of the straps of her dress, letting the top of it collapse into an expensive pile on her lap. “I guess I should know better than to expect much out of you.”

He kept pace, occasionally swiping his thumb across the head to spread the steady leak there up his shaft and over his palm to ease his way, and kept his eyes on her: the flush spreading up her throat and into her face, her chest and stomach rising and falling with her quickening breath, her hands restlessly smoothing across her collarbone and beneath the strap of her bra and over her thighs to inch up the fabric of her skirt. 

He rocked into his fist a final time and shifted at the last moment, so that when he came it wasn’t just onto his own belly and over his fingers, but onto the shiny surface of her boot, still planted between his legs. 

“I can’t believe you,” she snarled, and jabbed her heel against his hip as he lolled his cheek against her other thigh and caught his breath. “We both know that these boots are worth more than your mangy hide.”

She pulled a handful of his hair again, and he couldn’t hold in the groan of pleasure that surged up from his gut, but he turned his face - making sure to grate the prickliest part of his beard against her soft skin - and smothered it against her thigh. He nipped at the skin there, drawing up a red mark to match the one at her shoulder and felt her heel scrape spasmodically against his hip and tangle in the fabric of his undone jeans. 

“Remember when the Shield first came up?” he finally asked, pulling against her fingers in his hair to smirk up at her. 

“Back when you showered occasionally, and weren’t a constant pain in my ass?”

“Back when I got good at cleaning up the Authority’s messes,” he corrected and stuck out his tongue, drawing another frown from her. “And my own.” He grabbed her foot from where it nudged into his hip, and then bent low to rub his cheek against the soft leather. The rich, sweet smell of it filled his lungs, and he poked his tongue out to swipe at the buttery surface. He smiled to himself at her sudden, sharp intake of breath. 

He worked his way diligently from the pointed tip of her toe, across her ankle, up the barrel of supple leather around her calf, dragging his tongue over the finely-worked stitching, lapping up his own bitter come, leaving the black surface darker and shiny in his wake. By the time he reached the top edge, where the soft calfskin met the hot skin inside the bend of her knee, her fingernails were biting savagely into his shoulder, and he was pretty sure that her trembling thighs wouldn’t have held her up if she stood.

He licked a trail up the inside of her thigh with a tongue rubbed a little raw from the surface of her boot. As he went, he shoved the front of her skirt up into a puddle of slick material at her waist, her probably-designer dress turning into a crumpled belt that neither of them was patient enough to pull off. When it was pushed up out of the way, he saw that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He spread her knees wider.

“At least part of you missed me,” he said, breathing heavy onto her exposed, glistening skin. 

“Don’t try to be funny,” she said, and even though she was scolding, her voice had taken on the breathless note he’d been waiting for. “I’d hate to have to throw you out just when it turns out your mouth might be good for something after all.”

He rose up on his knees, his cock already half-hard again and rubbing against the bedspread between her legs, and bracketed her hips with his hands as he lowered his mouth to her, scraping his bristled cheeks against her thighs and tasting the salt of her on his tongue. 

She muttered a curse that he thought he probably wasn’t supposed to hear - it wasn’t one of the insults to him they both preferred, anyway - and fell back onto her elbows. When he glanced up, she was watching him intently over the curve of her heaving chest and down the line of her leanly-muscled core, past the absurd little roll of maybe-ruined dress above her hips. He slid his fingers up beneath it to dig into her waist as he leaned back into his task, pressing his mouth to her as her hips rolled up to meet his swollen lips. Her skin broke out into a light sweat as he kept working her over, her slickness gathering in his beard and smearing over the inside of her own thighs and down to soak into the scrap of skirt still spread beneath her. She hooked a knee over his shoulder, pinning him between her legs, and he felt the heel of her boot - the one he’d just detailed with the same tongue he was currently doing his best to fuck her with - jerk and jitter against the skin below his opposite shoulder blade as she rocked against him. 

He was hard enough again to cut glass, and rutting against the end of the bed without really meaning to, and he thought for a minute that she might get to run him down for coming twice before he even got her there once. But then, he felt her boot heel scrabble over his back and felt a shudder of muscle and a gush of wetness against his face and over his tongue, and he reached down and finished himself off in a few extra strokes, the leather of her boot still tacky against his back. 

“So what say, boss?” he asked a moment later, after her feet had both hit the floor and he had tucked his soft cock back into his pants. He leaned back and leered up at her. “Do I pass muster?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and crossed one leg over the other. Even though her sweaty hair had been pushed out of shape by the sheets and she was still half-wearing her once-fancy dress, she still managed to sound imperious when she said, “Assuming you don’t go out and win your Darwin Award between now and Summerslam, your slot on the roster is safe. As long as you’re out of my sight in the next ten minutes.”

He made it in seven, and spent the elevator ride wondering whether she’d wear boots to the show on the night of his welcome back party.


End file.
